THE EAGLE HAS LANDED.

         In this society anxiety walks with us, will my benefit be cut, will I be deported and who knows why a young man would throw himself in front of a train, but then again, this is capitalism. 

Jim McFarlane 30-6-11   hereandnowscot@gmail.com

         I was early. I had the luxury - on a clear day - to get off the shoogly bus. Across the Squiggly bridge I sauntered, northwards past the Broomielaw, nondescript buildings housing bureaucrats of BT, the Scottish Office.....

        The Job Centre in Argyle Street wasn't my destination, this time, carrying on, was the ATOS assessment centre at Cadogan St. - quiet outside at mid morning - no Black Triangle or dis ability campaigners this early.

       Reaching Bothwell Street I at first turned right, only to discover the imposing entrance I had imagined to be "Eagle" was not the place. About turning I strode. Across the road, every window of Habitat festooned the message: closing down sale/ everything must go! A symbol of the sixties myth, going the way of Woolies.....

        Just beside the slip-road from the Kingston Bridge was the Eagle building. The penny dropped. This was the immigration office place. Up to the 4th floor, a screening barrier and uniformed civil servant greeted me. Keys, coins, lighters, all to be placed on a tray. It was a hallmark of departure.

      I had to sit next to the toilets. This was the designated bay for benefit appeal claimants. In the larger waiting room space, a few of Jock Tamson's bairns who awaited a different fate: the right to stay or face deportation.

      Another unshaven man was processed. He said he was late because a young lad had thrown himself under an Underground train at Govan. No empathy overflowed from the clerk. My fellow claimant's lateness would undo my planned escape to Paisley afterwards. I settled down - a few BBC science magazines helped distract my thoughts. Others came & went or nervously visited the latrines.

      My time came. The clerk led me along the corridor. He opened the door. A surprise greeted me. This was not like Wellington Street or other overspill locations for Appeals. It was a miniature court room. I took my seat, a desk in front with water and tissues. I was at least 12 feet away from judgement.

     The legal man, explained how they would conduct the proceedings. The medical man - whose face betrayed a liking for the bottle - asked the questions. It was a case of casting the mind back, a portrait of anomie in the months before last autumn. A period when the diagnosis was incomplete. The medical scans were underway but not going as planned. I was sleeping fitfully, I was not functioning as before. Enough information was gleaned.

    Time to go. There would be no verbal verdict. I would be in a state of suspense. They ushered me out of the Eagle's lair. Would I continue under the scrutiny of the State? Or would I tread the path of precarity .

Disability assessor

[to be continued...]

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